


Panic Mode

by littlewitch34



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Jack is a good bro, Mention of drugs but it's Shitty so that's sort of a given?, Mentions of Bitty and Lardo, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 10:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6655240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlewitch34/pseuds/littlewitch34
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shitty has a great apartment in an amazing city. So why is he feeling less than 'swawesome?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Panic Mode

Shitty never got used to it-- logging into Facebook, Twitter, seeing all of his Samwell friends, grinning at the camera from updated profile pictures. Bitty standing in the kitchen, carefully creating a lattice for a pie, the lattice detailed with imprints and tiny stars scattered across the top (it's a strawberry-basil pie. Shitty can tell from the picture, and it's one of his favorites that Bitty makes). Ransom and Holster with matching Starbucks cups and homework spread out on a table in the Samwell library. Chowder in Jack's old bedroom, the walls plastered with Sharks posters.

 

Shitty saw a picture of Lardo, splattered in neon paint, and he had to turn away to open his window, roll a joint, and smoke the whole thing. He ripped through it; the joint barely lasted minutes in his hands. He couldn't stomach seeing Lardo's face. Their split was no one's fault but circumstance's-- yet Shitty and Lardo both blame Shitty. He couldn't help but worry that all of Samwell Hockey blames him too. Maybe that's why he's barely heard from any of them. Nursey texted him two weeks ago, something silly and insignificant. Maybe that's why his last conversation with Bitty ended with an abrupt 'shooty sugar, Shits, I have to go!' and a texted apology about a burning pie. Bitty could hold a grudge though, so Shitty figured that if Bitty really didn't want to talk to him, he'd never hear from Bitty. Maybe, maybe, maybe it's all in Shitty's head.

 

“Social media eats bags of dicks,” Shitty quietly proclaimed to himself. He looked around his apartment (the best graduation gift his parents could have given him, besides leaving him the fuck alone to do as he pleases without their criticisms). His apartment was well-stocked with prime lounging furniture; he found a killer recliner at Allston Christmas that he simply dragged all the way back to his apartment. The apartment was a little more 'grown-up' Shitty, but still very much Shitty.

 

He had a killer apartment in the greatest city in the world, and he was lonely as hell. That simple fact was what brought him to get on the 'dickbag eating' social media accounts in the first place.

 

Shitty's eye was caught by a picture of himself with Jack, a silly picture from when they were barely frogs, messy-haired and huge grins. Shitty's heart clenched. He talked to Jack, to Bitty. They hadn't told him about their relationship, but Shitty can hear it in their voices. As miserable as Shitty was over all of this-- no friends nearby, no girl, no hockey-- he was thrilled beyond belief for Jack and Bitty.

 

Shitty picked up his phone and opened a text message. He wrote 'hi' before he even decided where that text was going. He opened the contact list and his eyes hovered over Lardo's name until he felt his heart pounding in his chest.

 

“That's right, fucker,” he murmured. “Escape and bolt.” Shitty pictured his heart leaping through his chest, leaving a gaping hole in its wake, and his lumpy heart taking off down the street. “You better fuckin' run.” Shitty rubbed his chest, his hand trembling as he tried to remember every one of the deep breathing exercises his kiddie therapist taught him.

 

'In and out, sweetpea,' he heard her say in his head. 'In slow, count to six, breathe out for eight.' He always tried, but when he needed the exercises most, he was always way too worked up to focus on what order numbers went in.

 

Before he caught his breath, he found Jack's name in his contact list and sent his 'hi' text off to Jack. Texting Jack was safe. Texting Jack could never be a mistake. Of course, Shitty's mind could turn anything into a mistake, and he already pictured Jack making a face at the phone, exasperated that someone from his past was bothering him. Rationally, Shitty knew better, but nothing about him was entirely rational.

 

His phone rang less than a minute later, though Shitty could have sworn it was an hour. Shitty accepted the call, but when he opened his mouth to speak, it felt like his tongue was swollen.

 

“Shits?” Jack asked, frowning when Shitty didn't actually say 'hello.'

 

“Jack,” Shitty said, trying to force his usual upbeat tone into his voice. “Bro, bro, dudebro, you didn't have to call. That's why I texted.”

 

“You _never_ text me 'hi,'” Jack said firmly. “What happened?”

 

“What?” Shitty asked, trying to laugh, but it sounded tight. His chest felt tight too, and in his head was trying his damndest to count to six and eight.

 

“ _Shitty_ ,” Jack said firmly.

 

“Nothin', Jack. I just needed to, uh, to hear someone's voice. That's all,” Shitty said quietly.

 

“I'm here,” Jack replied, his voice just as soft. “Do you want the-- uh, Skype?”  
  
Shitty blanched at the idea of Jack being able to _see_ his melancholy. “Nah, nah, this is perfect.”

 

“What happened?” Jack pressed quietly. “Are-- is everything ok?”  
  
“Fine,” Shitty soothed softly. “Everyone's alive and-- fine. I'm just being a fuckin' idiot.” He curled up on his couch, toes jammed between two of the cushions. “Tell me 'bout Providence.”  
  
“Uh... well, to be honest, I haven't even found a good cafe yet,” Jack confessed. “It's busy. Really busy. Camps and press. It's, uh, a lot.”

 

“I bet. But you got this, Jack,” Shitty said. That was the most confident thing he'd said since their conversation started. “You can handle it all. And if you need me to hop a train down to Providence to tell some fuckin' paparazzi to shove their cameras through their taints to their assholes--”  
  
“I know,” Jack promised Shitty, smiling a little. “You always said that about people at Samwell too. I appreciated the sentiment... even if I never took you up on the offer.”

 

“You don't deserve bullshit,” Shitty insisted. “You never did. You're my best bro, Jack.”

 

“You're mine too, Shits.” Jack sighed quietly. “So... you want to tell me stuff now?”  
  
“I suck at emotions,” Shitty said.

 

Jack let out a small laugh at that. “Oh, sure, the man who had me up at three in the morning, who I, uh... opened up to...”

 

“I know what you mean,” Shitty promised, remembering the late night-early morning when Jack came out to him.

 

“You did that for me, so can't you let me do that for you?” Jack begged softly. Shitty heard a tiny bit of desperation in Jack's voice.

 

“I'm just-- it's fuckin' stupid,” Shitty said quietly. His heart was pounding again, and he knew that if anyone could probably understand him, or even read between the lines, it would be Jack. “I was sittin' here and fuckin'-- fuckin'-- my apartment's so  _ quiet _ and  _ empty _ and all I want is to hear Rans and Holster upstairs, or Bits in the kitchen, and then I went onto fuckin'  _ Facebook _ \-- that site eats bags of dicks for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, man, for serious-- and there's this shot of Lardo and I just--” Shitty didn't listen to himself, or he would have realized that he was breathing quick, his voice shaking.

 

“Shitty. Shits.  _ Shitty _ ,” Jack nearly barked, just trying to get Shitty to focus. “I need you to do me a huge favor. I need you to breathe.”

 

“Um... what?” Shitty asked.

 

“You're hyperventilating and you're gonna faint, so I need you to look out the window and tell me what you see. Right now. Describe it,” Jack demanded quietly.

 

Shitty perched himself on his windowsill and stared down at the street below him. “Um... ok, there's a Starbucks across the street. There's a guy locking up his bike outside of it and he's carrying a fucking mason jar like he's going to use the mason jar for his reusable coffee cup in the 'Bucks. What kind of fuckery is that?”

 

“What else?” Jack prompted.

 

“Uh... most of the buildings here are brick? They're pretty old. I don't know what else about them, but there's the Starbucks, a bike shop, some kind of fuckin' crystal-tarot place that says they'll gimme a psychic reading for fifteen bucks,” Shitty listed off.

 

“Shitty,” Jack said quietly. “Can you count backwards from ten for me? Nice and slow?”  
  
Shitty frowned a little, not sure where Jack was going with this, but he nodded. “Ok. Ok... ten... nine... eight...” Shitty managed to count backwards from ten to zero, then added “blastoff” at the end playfully.

 

Something in Jack's voice shifted after that and he sounded more relaxed. “Good. Perfect, Shits.”

 

“Thank you?” Shitty replied. It only clicked a few seconds later that 'count backwards from ten' was Jack's version of 'breathe in, count to six.' “Oh.”

 

“Yeah. That's what I do,” Jack said quietly. “When I feel like my heart's about to explode. Before the press. After them.”

 

“Will you marry me? I'll fight off the fuckin' press-sharks forever,” Shitty vowed.

 

Jack smiled at that. “You didn't give me a ring.”

 

“I got a fuckin' Ring Pop here with your name on it, bro,” Shitty teased softly, sounding at least a little more like himself. “Come here and get it.”

 

“I have a free Sunday,” Jack said. “I'll be there.”

 

“What?” Shitty asked, his eyes wide. “No, bro, don't waste--”

 

“Time's never wasted if I'm with people I like,” Jack said firmly. “Don't argue. I'll be there around noon Sunday?”

 

Shitty's shoulders unclenched. “Yeah.”

 

“We can post a... selfie? Selfie. On Facebook. Make them wish they were with us,” Jack offered, cutting right to the core of Shitty's feelings.

 

“That's what I want,” Shitty decided. “I need someone for a while. Boston rocks. It's all kinds of fuckin' lonely though.”

 

“Are you gonna be ok until Sunday?” Jack asked.

 

“I'm good,” Shitty promised him. The idea that Jack would be there in just a few days was more than enough to calm the rolling waves of emotion in him.

 

“I know 'relax' is the worst advice. I know from experience,” Jack admitted. “But try?”

 

“Trying,” Shitty said. “I'll be ok, Jack. Really.”

 

“Ok,” Jack said. “I, uh... I can stay on the line for a while--”

 

“Dude, go to practice or photoshoots or whatever. Seriously. Text me later, bro. I'm good now,” Shitty assured Jack. “You got shit to do and I want you to do it.” Shitty was sincere, too. He didn't want Jack in trouble because he was on the phone and missed something Falconers-related.

 

“Do something for yourself right now, Shits,” Jack requested. “I don't know-- whatever makes you happy. Watch a movie that cracks you up, or read a book, or some funny article or something. Ok?”

 

“Ok,” Shitty promised Jack. “Ok. I got this. I'll see you Sunday and talk to you later, Jack. Fuckin' go before I decide to hire you a new manager who won't let you make phone calls between hockey shit.”

 

“See you Sunday,” Jack replied. “Bye, Shits. Take care of yourself.”

 

“I will,” Shitty said.

 

After he hung up the phone, Shitty flicked over from 'phone call' to Spotify, and started up his Greatful Dead playlist. He put his head against the armrest of the couch, and let himself drift off to Touch of Grey, his eyes drooping closed. The panic in his body had ebbed, and that was enough for him to nap for a while.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know how it feels to graduate before most of your friends and look at them from afar. I feel you, Shits. Jack is a good bro.


End file.
